Dr. D Spills the Tea

Selected

Brent Holding’s POV

It was planned.

    All of it.

    “You know Diana Sanchez.”

    Theodore Blackwell was hitting the heavy bag in quick succession, hardly breaking a sweat as each punch knocked it back further and further.

    Still, at the mention of Diana, he caught the bag and his head snapped up.  “Excuse me?”

    “Ms. Sanchez,” I pressed, frowning at the surprise on his expression.

    “What about her?” he asked, straightening.

    “I saw a picture of you, your spouse, and Ms. Sanchez together in the past.”

    “Where?”  His eyes narrowed, suspicion written all over his expression.  A rather private person, it was clear that I was mucking around in dangerous territory.

    “It was her phone lock screen in college,” I admitted.

    A quirked brow, his eyes roved over my expression, reading into it.

    Scratching the back of my neck, I added, “She’s kind of an old acquaintance.”

    Theo tsked.  “You’re in love with her.”

    “That’s a big jump from acquaintance,” I said, playing dumb.

    “You don’t go around asking about just any old acquaintance.  And you wouldn’t try to get close to someone related to that acquaintance in the hopes of being re-acquainted either.”

    He was making solid points here.

    “We both went to Penn.”

    “Where you fell in love with her,” he chuckled, shaking his hair out with a towel.  “Hey man, I get it.  She’s a ten.”

    Something about the fact that Theodore Blackwell dubbed her a ten made my stomach churn.  If he could see it, anybody could see it.  Everybody could.  Hell, there’s no way she’s still—

    “She’s dating someone,” he’d said, matter-of-fact.

    s**t.  Of course she was.  How could she not be?

    “But it won’t last,” he added, giving me an amused smile.

    “Why do you seem so sure?”

    “I know her,” he said easily, giving me a smirk.

    He’s gay.  At least, his spouse is a male.  He’s madly in love with him.

    That didn’t change the revulsion that ran through me at the idea of having him as a potential competitor.  If he were vying for her attention, I’d have a hell of a time—

    “I could get you in touch when it ends,” Theo offered, something in his expression soft.

    “Yeah?”

    He gave a slight nod.  “I’ll kill you with my bare hands if you f**k it up, though.”

    Raising my brows, I didn’t see any humor in his expression.  He meant it.  Giving a slight nod, I found myself smiling.  “Deal.”

. . .

Two years had passed since then.

    Two years of getting my practice up, shaking hands with other powerhouse lawyers, becoming a solid competitor among the firms nearby—and gaining some big-name clients.  Politicians, wealthy athletes, and even a familiar business tycoon who may or may not have set me up for success on a number of occasions.  I got the gist that Theodore Blackwell had an ulterior motive every time he introduced me to a new, noteworthy client.

    Still, I wasn’t in a position to ask questions.

    If pressed, I was certain he’d just bring up confidentiality and all of that hullabaloo.

    “She’s engaged.”

    I’d nearly spit out my rum.  “Excuse me?”

    “The ring is huge,” Theo went on, turning his phone so I could see the rock.

    “What the hell?”

    “It won’t last,” he repeated, taking a swig of beer.

    “Listen man, I know you think you know her but—”

    “It won’t last,” he’d repeated, a glimmer in those green eyes.

    I remember taking in his certain expression and, despite all the doubt welling up in my chest, I believed him.  I believed him because when Theodore Blackwell wants something, he gets it.  I’d learned that early on, watching how viciously he’d come after different properties, making it more and more difficult on whatever owners weren’t willing to hand them over.  Ruthless, relentless—perseverance is the mans’ middle name and, for whatever reason, he wanted Diana Sanchez.

    I just didn’t know why.

    But at the bar after a few beers, buzzed, laughing about a recent ploy to purchase some poor saps hotel—I finally popped the big question:  “What’s Diana to you?”

    “My equal,” had been his response.

    His equal.  Swallowing back my uncertainty, I pressed, “What do you want with her?”

    “Partnership,” was his automatic response.  It must have been loud in my expression because he laughed.  “Calm down, I’m not trying to claim your woman.”

    My woman.  I picked up my rum, taking a slow swig.

    “Phil and I want her as our surrogate.”

    Surrogacy.  I blinked over at him, frowning.  “You want her to bear your children?”

    “We want her to raise our children alongside us,” he corrected, taking a swig of beer.

    “As a . . . what?”

    “Co-parent,” he said easily.  “The mother of our children.”

    Scrunching my brow, I muttered, “Isn’t that an . . . odd arrangement?”

    “Wouldn’t this kind of arrangement be beneficial to you?” Theo asked, quirking a brow.

    My eyes shifted to him, my surprise obvious.

    “She wants children, you know,” Theo went on, that glimmer back in his green eyes.

    That was the moment, I think, that everything fell into place for me.

    The moment I realized I’d been selected by him to pursue her.

    Suddenly, I understood why I had been considered a valid selection for Ms. Sanchez.

    Somehow Theodore Blackwell knew about my medical condition.

    “We’ll provide them,” he went on, taking another swig of beer.  “So there you go.  One less obstacle to jump through.”

    One less obstacle.

    But wasn’t that what he expected me to provide?

    A man who had no right to complain, one who couldn’t feel jealous or upset about the two gay men offering their seed to her?  After all, they’d be offering her something I could never provide.

    Lifting my rum, I wasn’t sure whether Theodore Blackwell was an angel or some kind of demon as I tossed the rest of the rum back.

    Either way, he was right.

    One less obstacle for both of us, then.

. . .

“Partner?”  Her dark eyes lifted to mine, full lips pursing.  “Are you insane?”  I noticed how she pushed her long, beautiful hair behind her ear, her log lashes fluttering as she glanced back down at the napkin I’d just passed her.  “You haven’t even worked with me.”

    “We worked together all through college,” was my argument.

    “But that was years ago,” she said, glaring at me now.

    Vicious.

    Argumentative.

    And so sexy.

    Sitting back in my chair, it was hard not to notice the way that sweater slipped down one shoulder, hugging her breasts just right.  She was always blessed in every way—a beautiful Latina minx with the curves to prove it.  I’d spent all those long nights in the library beside her with a semi-hard on, feeling more and more frustrated by her lack of interest, her insistence that I pay attention to my studies, her eye-rolls at my attempts at flirtation.

    She was an infuriating woman, yes, but an equally captivating one.

    I could still remember asking her what she wanted most in her life and the way she’d stared at the ceiling of the library, momentarily lost in thought.  I’d expected her to say a successful career.  Hell, I’d always assumed she’d marry her job.  She was absolutely that type of woman, that driven, that ambitious—and maybe if that’s what she’d said, I would have pursued her properly back then.

    Dated her the way I wanted to.  f****d her ruthlessly every chance I got.

    Maybe if she hadn’t worn that small, satisfied smile and whispered, “Children,” with such awe in her voice—maybe then I wouldn’t have just . . . let her go.

    Gave up.

    Fell back completely the way I had.

    It was a great irony that, years later, I’d still pursue her.  Despite that challenge, despite that concern—what I wanted from Diana Sanchez hadn’t changed at all.

    I supposed that just as he had with my career, Theodore Blackwell was opening a door to my relationship goal as well.

    “I have faith in your ability to woo me,” I said, quirking a brow.  “Don’t you?”

    She narrowed her eyes and I’d seen that expression before.

    Competitive by nature, she was always up for a good challenge.

    “I’m a better lawyer than you,” she promised me.  She’d meant it to be intimidating, to maybe step on my ego, but all she did was further increase her appeal to me.

    “Oh, I absolutely expect you to be,” I told her with a smile.

    She blinked, looking confused by my reaction.

    A lesser man might feel agitated by the statement she’d made, might argue and put up some type of front.  But I’d spent most of my life looking for the opportunity to worship this woman—her achievements, past, present, and future—and I wouldn’t foul it up with lies of grandeur.

    “I told you Ms. Sanchez,” I said, loving the taste of her name as it rolled off my tongue, “I want to choose a winning team.  Admittedly, I want you the most.”

    The last bit was the undeniable truth.

    I’d wanted her for years—in every way.

    And she was right here, seated before me, bristling at my words, re-crossing those long dancer legs beneath the table, pushing her hair over her shoulder—and she was magnificent.

    As magnificent as the day I’d met her, seated in front of me in college, taking such neat notes—her hair had been a bit shorter then but her skin had the same glow, her gaze just as intense.  Dissecting me, calculating her next move—a brilliant woman like her would want to work where she’s appreciated.  Understood.  And, most of all, challenged to become a better version of herself.

    “I’m assuming there’s a benefits package,” was her first statement.

    So she was considering my offer.  “Of course.”

    “And paid vacation,” she said, quirking a brow, drumming her fingers on the table.

    She’d run me broke, I thought with a smile.  “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

    “I would.”  Her smile was vicious.  More teeth than smile, really.  “I imagine you’re into stocks, Mr. Holdings,” she said, picking up her martini.

    “I imagine most educated individuals are, Ms. Sanchez,” I smiled back, enjoying our little game of cat and mouse.  Certainly she was the cat in this scenario—I hardly felt like prey, though.  I’d been looking forward to this moment for years.  The moment I talked her into signing her time to me, to work next to me for long hours, on cases that make her excited.  She had no idea how patient I’d been and how patient I’d continue to be, even if it meant playing at being the mouse.

    “Your company, does it offer a 401K?” she asked softly, pleasantly.

    “It can,” I offered back, just as pleasantly.

    Biting her lip, there was a gleam in her dark eyes.  She thought she was winning.

    She should feel that way—in a number of ways she already had.

    As Evan brought our entrees, I felt relieved to see a large slab of steak set before her and not just a light salad like most of the other women I’d entertained would opt for.  In fact, it was almost an irony that we’d ordered the same thing.

    “The regular,” he said, giving us both an amused look.  “For both of you.”

    I smiled at Diana who looked surprised.  “You’ve got good taste,” I commended her.

    “Sometimes,” she sighed, picking up the knife to cut into the steak.

    “If you’re referring to your taste in men, I’d have to agree,” I muttered, picking up my own cutlery.  Evan had heard what I’d said, his eyes widening.

    “Rude,” Diana said, giving me a dirty look.

    “Honest,” I said cheekily.  “It’s okay though, we all make mistakes.”

    “Do we?” she asked, giving me an unamused look.

    “Well, not all of us,” I teased.

    She frowned.  “What have you been up to, anyway?  Besides offering a stranger partnership to your firm?”

    “I don’t consider you a stranger, Ms. Sanchez,” I assured her.

    “And why not, Mr. Holdings?”

    Taking bite of the meat, savoring the flavor, I looked her over carefully, watching as she shifted in her seat, clearly aware of my gaze.  She could feel it, right?  Years of being unsatisfied—both emotionally and physically if George Whittiker had anything to do with it—should make her even more sensitive to the possibility of finally feeling fulfilled . . . in various ways.

    Swallowing, I licked my lips, wondering how long I should wait before pushing against the boundary of “just partner”.

    She held my gaze well, even as she took her first, dainty bite.

    Unwavering eye contact, that almost outrageous pride in her certain expression—“A few years have passed but your expression is the same,” I answered carefully.

    “What expression?” she pressed, quirking a brow.

    I smiled.  Of course she’d ask.  “Insatiable ambition, Ms. Sanchez.”

    She averted her gaze to her steak and I knew my answer satisfied her.

    Impressed her, maybe.

    She cut into her steak for another piece of meat, popping it into her mouth.

    Red in the center—she liked it medium rare.

    A woman with good taste indeed.

    “A man like Whittiker would only dim your potential, always worried that you’d one day outshine him,” I informed her, making another cut into my own steak.  “You don’t need that kind of bogus support.”

    “You’re saying what I need is you?” she asked, that question fully loaded.

    I was ready for it, of course.

    “No, you don’t need me.”  I was fully aware of her potential, of her capabilities.  She didn’t need anyone to rely on, nobody to use as a stepping stool to boost her abilities.  “Still, I promise I would make one hell of an ally and I promise to never get in your way.”

    She let out a soft laugh.  “You still have a silver tongue.”

    I bit my cheek, stopping myself from telling her what else my tongue could do.

    “As the offer stands, I’m interested,” she allowed, wiping at her lip with a napkin.

    Progress.  I gave a slight nod.  Not quite the bite I wanted but progress nonetheless.  When Evan came back, approaching from behind Diana, he wagged his brows at me enthusiastically and I was careful not to react, stifling an eyeroll.  “One check?” he offered with a wide smile.

    “Yes,” I said at the same time as Diana said, “No.”

    We glanced at each other and she frowned.  “I can pay for myself.”

    “There’s no question that you can, sweets,” I told her.  “But for this occasion, you won’t.”

    “You’re telling me what I won’t do?” she asked, quirking a brow.

    But I’d already pulled out my card, handing it to Evan with a wink.  He took it, throwing an apologetic look at Diana who looked upset.  “I never said you could—”

    “I didn’t ask for permission,” I reminded her evenly, clasping my hands under my chin.

    She sat straighter, chin raised with that familiar pride.

    Beautiful, independent—“I thought I was running the interview,” she pressed.  “If I get to choose the venue, shouldn’t I get to pay?”

    “I was the one who invited you out,” I reminded her carefully.

    “But—”

    “And I have no intention of letting you pay.”

    “Because I’m a woman?”

    A trap.  I smiled, aware of the land mine I could be walking into with that one.  “No, it’s because I want to pay for your dinner.”

    She parted her lips, then shut them.

    I smiled wider.

    She tucked her hair behind her ear, suddenly looking shy.  “I mean, if you insist.”

    “I insist.”

    “But next time—”

    “So there will be a next time?” I asked, quirking a brow.

    Averting her eyes, I watched her shift her weight, the way she bit her lip—it was hard not to stare.  To feel distracted by her presence.  I wanted to call the cab, wanted her to invite me up to her apartment, to open up another opportunity, one I’d been fiending for all of this time—

    But that wouldn’t do.

    Whether she was willing or not, if we got physical, she’d never agree to work with me.

    Career first.

    Everything else after.

    That’s how a woman like Diana Sanchez functions.

    Biting my cheek, I decided to backtrack.  “I’ll let you pay next time, assuming it’s takeout while we work tirelessly on a case.”  Smiling, I added, “See?  We can compromise.”

    She gave a small smile, gazing up at me through her lashes.

    I wondered if she had any idea what a look like that does to a man.

    “Sure.  Compromise,” she laughed.

    A sweet sound.  Beautiful like her.

    Drumming her nails on the table again, she gave a slight nod.  “That’s acceptable.”

    Acceptable would have to do for now.

    Noticing how low her second martini was, I thought about the way she was looking at me and decided I should probably call the cab and part with her there for the night.

    If she made the offer, I didn’t trust myself not to take it and it wasn’t the time.

    Not yet.

    “What are you thinking?” she wondered, curious.

    About you.  I can't tell her that though.

    “Do you still hum while you work?” I asked.

    She looked startled.  “Huh?”

    “You know, hum.  You always used to—”

    “I don’t know,” she laughed.  “What kind of question—”

    “I mean, it can be a bit distracting,” I informed her, forcing myself to keep a straight face.

    “You’re joking.”

    “I’m just saying, if you’re going to hum, we might have to put this whole deal on hold,” I said, playing at being serious.

    There was intense eye contact for a second . . . until I caved, my smile widening.

    With a blink, she reached across to shove my shoulder.  “Shut up.  You’re such an ass.”

    Laughing at her flustered expression, I shook my head.  “You can hum, sweets.”

    “Oh can I?” she huffed, scrunching her nose at me.

    It was cute and I gave her a wry smile.  “Ms. Sanchez, I expect you can do anything you set your mind to.”

    She held my gaze, tilting her chin upward.  “I suppose we’re in agreement then, Mr. Holdings.”